Chapter 93 The Serpent's Threshold
The apartment felt unusually small as I smoothed the navy silk of my dress, the fabric cool and unforgiving against my skin. The contrast between the high-end shimmer of the gown and the chipped linoleum of the kitchen floor was a physical ache, a reminder of the two lives I was currently trying to stitch together. I checked the mirror one last time, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The woman looking back didn't look like a girl from the docks; she looked like someone who belonged in a skyscraper.
"Are you sure you’re okay with this?" I asked, looking at Eliza. She was currently seated at the table, a stack of Grace’s math worksheets on one side and a half-eaten pizza on the other. "I can still call it off. I don't have to go. We could just put on a movie and ignore the world."
Eliza looked up, her expression softening from her usual sharp wit into something more protective. "Mila, stop. Grace is already half-convinced she’s an algebra genius, and Zoe is out cold. We are fine. You’ve spent your whole life watching everyone else, making sure everyone else’s needs are met before you even think of your own. Tonight, you’re allowed to go out and look after your own future. Go. Be brilliant. Be intimidating. I’ve got the fort covered, and if any loan sharks or billionaires come knocking, I’ll tell them you’re busy being a legend."
I gave her a quick, tight hug, then checked on the girls one last time. Grace gave me a sleepy thumbs-up from the sofa, her eyes already drooping over her textbook. With a final deep breath, I grabbed my clutch and my coat, stepping out into the hallway. The silence of the stairwell felt heavier than usual, like the building itself was holding its breath.
As I waited for the elevator, I pulled out my phone to check for a text from Nate. There was a message, sent twenty minutes ago: Stuck at a formal board dinner at the estate. My mother’s making it a multi-course interrogation. Wish I was in Brooklyn with you instead. Call me when you’re done with your study session?
I bit my lip, my thumb hovering over the screen. I hadn't told him I was actually going to the Alpha Sigma event. I told myself it was because I wanted to surprise him—to show him I could handle his world without him holding my hand—but deep down, I knew it was because I didn't want him to stop me. I didn't want to hear his warnings or his reasons why I should stay safe in the shadows. If he was at a Salvatore board dinner, he was surrounded by the very legacy I was trying to prove I was worthy of. I didn't want to be his "study session." I wanted to be his peer.
The subway ride to the Alverstone district felt like a journey between two different planets. I sat on the orange plastic seat, clutching my coat around my dress, feeling the eyes of the late-night commuters on me. By the time I reached the North Campus, the moon was high, casting long, sharp shadows over the Gothic architecture that defined the university.
The Alpha Sigma lounge wasn't in one of the common buildings where the public was allowed. It was located in the West Wing of the Founders’ Hall—a restricted-access area where the heavy oak doors remained barred to anyone without the proper credentials. As I approached, a tuxedoed attendant stepped forward. I didn't say a word; I simply presented the cream-colored envelope. He inspected the gold seal with a practiced, clinical eye before stepping aside and pulling the door open.
As I stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The air was thick and still, smelling of beeswax, old parchment, and the kind of expensive scotch that cost more than my monthly rent back in Brooklyn. It was suffocatingly opulent. Deep emerald velvet curtains muffled the sounds of the outside world, creating a vacuum where only the elite existed. The walls were lined with oil paintings of men whose gazes felt like a judgment, their painted eyes following me as I crossed the threshold. Crystal chandeliers hung low, casting a flickering, amber light over the small groups of students and alumni gathered in the room. There was no music, only the low, rhythmic hum of refined conversation and the delicate clink of silver against china.
Every person in the room looked like they had been sculpted from marble. They moved with a slow, deliberate confidence that made me feel like every breath I took was too loud, every heartbeat a disturbance of the peace. I stood at the edge of the foyer, my hand instinctively going to the small silver butterfly pinned beneath my silk bodice. I needed that reminder of where I came from, a tether to the ground.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim, golden light, I scanned the room, looking for a familiar face. I didn't see Scarlett immediately, but I did see someone I recognized. Across the lounge, leaning against a dark wood pillar, was Gavin Hollis.
He looked devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo, his usual relaxed posture replaced by a stiff, professional boredom. He was surrounded by a small circle of girls, all of them dressed in gowns that probably cost five figures, their voices a chorus of practiced laughter as they vied for his attention. One girl was leaning in close, her hand resting lightly on his arm, whispering something that made the others giggle.
Gavin, however, didn't seem to notice them. He was staring over their heads, his expression blank and his eyes glassed over with a profound sense of disinterest. He didn't laugh; he didn't even acknowledge the girl touching him. He looked like a man who had been forced into a costume and told to play a part he despised. For a split second, our eyes met across the crowded room. His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of recognition—and maybe a warning—flashing in his gaze before he turned his head away, ignoring the girls as if they were nothing more than static.
The sight of him there, looking so utterly trapped despite his status, should have made me feel better. Instead, it made the knot in my stomach tighten. If Gavin Hollis, with all his family's history and power, looked this miserable in this room, what chance did I have? I wasn't born for this; I was an interloper trying to scale a glass wall.
I took a step forward, my heels clicking sharply against the polished marble, and waited for the world to notice I had arrived. I wasn't just here to watch the sharks anymore; I was in the water with them. I could feel the temperature of the room drop as a few heads turned, their gazes sweeping over my navy dress with a clinical, detached curiosity. I kept my chin up, my hand gripping my clutch until my knuckles turned white. I was Mila Stone, and I had earned my place on the shortlist. Now, I just had to survive the induction.